


Ambush

by speedgriffon



Series: I Shall Taunt You a Second Time | Dragonborn Fiona Fics [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pre-Relationship, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: Our favorite thieving pair are attacked on their way to Rorickstead by vampires. While they are lucky to get away with their lives, Brynjolf is gravely injured. Fiona faces overwhelming guilt, and other emotions of the heart, while tending to him.





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> I was not prompted for this, but I have been wanting to write a tropey- tending to injuries fic for so long now for these two. So this is just me being self-indulgent as always. :)

The grassy plains of Whiterun were idyllic—open fields of tundra cotton, wildflowers and lavender for as long as the eye could see. While pretty, it wasn’t the most ideal location for two thieves to be traveling across. No shadows or dark corners to hide along or caves to quickly seek shelter within. With the moonlight shining bright in the evening sky, it didn’t matter how dark Fiona and Brynjolf’s armor and cloaks were—they stuck out like two black dots on a map, just waiting to be preyed upon.

It wasn’t that Fiona was scared or insecure of her abilities in case they were attacked, it was more about the anxiety she felt about _what _could find them out here in the open. Specifically, what could swoop down from the skies and immediately sense that she was _Dovahkiin_. Certainly, she would be able to defeat a dragon with her Dovahzul, but she would have a _lot_ of explaining to do to her witness, _especially_ after she absorbed its soul.

She had been living a lie for months now, holding back her true nature from the Guild. It was only growing more difficult to hide the longer she stayed with them in Riften. Yes, she would occasionally slip away to attend to “personal business”, but even she knew the paths she walked were bound to intersect eventually—she couldn’t hide and lie forever. Still, she would fight divulging that part of her until it was absolutely necessary. She hadn’t even fully come to terms with what being Dragonborn meant, or what was being asked of her from the Greybeards—how was she supposed to admit that to the people she had come to care about? The _family_ who had, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, made her feel like she belonged?

There was something especially painful about hiding it all from Brynjolf, her constant companion as she travelled from city to city completing jobs for Vex, Delvin and Mercer. Their friendship was something she cherished. Sure, it was an unconventional _friendship_ that included far more flirting with the occasional kiss—something she didn’t share with anyone else she knew. What would _he_ think of her powers? That she was to be the one to defeat Alduin and bring peace to Skyrim? What would Brynjolf think about being _lied _to after all this time?

Fiona pushed away the ache radiating through her chest as best as she could and concentrated instead on the path they walked. It wasn’t the main road, obviously, the two rounding the large mountain along a southern route on their way towards Rorickstead to pick up a shipment for their Guildmaster. It would put them close to the river, closer to safer camping sites. As they continued to crunch through the dried grasslands and heavy thickets of flowers, she heard Brynjolf grumble from behind her.

“When we return to Riften, I am giving Mercer a piece of my—” Brynjolf was interrupted by his own sneeze and sniffle. Fiona glanced over her shoulder to look at him wiping at his already irritated nose with the handkerchief she had lent him, not that she really wanted it back now. “I am _suffering_.” 

While she felt guilty about it all the same, his miserable expression slightly amused her, lifting her from her previous mood. She smiled, shaking her head as he made a disgusted noise in the general direction of the offending purple flowers. “Remind me to brew you something for your allergies.”

“Aye,” he agreed, nodding. “You just want an excuse to take care of me,” he teased with a wink. Fiona had long grown used to these lines of his, had even taken the time to flirt back and indulge in this game of theirs but in that moment she felt different—the slightest warmth prickled at her ears and she bit her tongue when no words formed. “Awe, have I made you—”

They both turned towards a sudden rustling noise in alarm. Before Brynjolf could finish his sentence he had shoved the two of them aside, Fiona startled by the sudden feeling of his hands on her body until she realized just why he had done so. As quickly as he rolled them to the ground he had sprung up again, withdrawing his daggers from his belt and crouching into a fighting stance as their enemies made themselves known.

The red glow on their hands had Fiona instantly on the defensive—_vampires_—five of them, quickly surrounding the two thieves. She pushed herself from the ground before the one closest to her could ensnare her with the magic of his vampiric drain, swiftly arming her bow with a quiver that she shot just as she rolled up from the bed of flowers. While her arrow found her target, Fiona cursed as it did little to slow the enemy down. The vampire scurried away, rushing back up the small hill they had come from as it clutched its injured arm. As she notched another arrow she searched for Brynjolf on the field, finding him engaged with two fledglings that were wildly flailing at him. She meant to shoot to kill, but at the last moment her aim was disrupted, the sharp sting of a blade slicing across the back of her right shoulder. A larger vampire had attacked her from behind, the shimmer of his stealth disappearing as his blade made contact with her armor and leathers.

Even so, her ebony arrow sliced through one of Brynjolf’s attackers allowing him the opportunity to shove his blades deep within the gut of the other fledgling. It was easy to kill off the one she had injured after that. He turned his attention towards her—only then did she realize she had foolishly cried out when attacked. Frustrated, she dropped her bow and pulled her daggers from their hilts, gripping them tightly as she whipped around to slice at the vampire’s neck. Her blade made contact with his arm instead, the vampire gripping her wrist tightly and wrenching her sideways, painfully twisting her arm until she could feel her bones spraining under the pressure. As the pain radiated up her arm she twisted the other blade in her free hand, finding enough purchase between them to plunge the dagger into her captor’s side. She held it there—gripping the handle so tightly her hand was shaking—until she felt the body beside her go limp.

Fiona pushed the vampire away and quickly turned to find Brynjolf already finishing off another enemy, looking up at her with a satisfied, winded grin. She paused to catch her breath, blinking a few times before counting—_one, two, three, four_— Brynjolf’s eyes widened just as _five_ entered her mind, and just as before, his hands reached out for her, except this time he was pushing her aside without him. The vampire she had injured before was clearly more resilient than the others, focusing all his rage on Brynjolf. He slashed a long glass dagger at his thigh and torso, moving in ways that didn’t give the thief much time to think, let along dodge.

From the ground, Fiona struggled to find her footing, realizing her own injuries were fast catching up to her. She couldn’t shoot an arrow from her bow, and her right hand couldn’t exactly wield a dagger effectively in that moment. Still, she wasn’t about to let Brynjolf be overpowered. Her adrenaline kicked into overdrive when she heard the sound of his agonizing groan, the vampire _laughing_ as he stabbed at Brynjolf’s side. It felt like the world slowed at that moment, Fiona inhaling deeply and ignoring all the pain that radiated within her body as she stood up. The vampire shoved Brynjolf away as he noticed her approaching, but any plan to harm her that he might have been formulating didn’t matter as Fiona charged in a blind fury, tackling the enemy to the ground as she sunk one blade through his chest, the other in his eye.

She stayed straddled across the dead vampire’s body for a long moment, struggling to regain her composure. It wasn’t until she heard the straggled breathing nearby that she was reminded this was far from over, and hardly a victory. In an instant she was at Brynjolf’s side, eyes darting across his body as she tried to assess the damage—a split lip, a bloody nose, a large gash across his thigh, and perhaps the worst injury and the reason for the amount of blood coating his armor—the stab wound to torso. Fiona was thankful to every Divine she could think of that he was alive. Now it was up to her to keep him that way and she needed to act fast.

For starters, they needed to get the hell out of the open field, and away from anymore potential threats. Fiona reluctantly left his side, whispering to him to hold on before she quickly gathered their scattered belongings, wrenching their weapons from various dead vampires but deciding to leave her bow when she discovered it had been snapped in two in the scuffle. She pulled a strip of clean cloth from her pack, wrapping it tightly around his leg to stem off the bleeding. It would have to do for now. Without getting a closer look she couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem to be _too_ harsh, and nowhere near an artery.

“Come on,” Fiona encouraged, gripping both of Brynjolf’s hands as she helped him to sit up, using all of her strength despite the fact her shoulder was _screaming_ at her. He was far worse off—she could wait. “We need to move somewhere safer.”

He regarded her with a pained but knowing expression and nodded. “Aye, you’ll have to help me.”

She stood up first, carefully hiding her discomfort as she pulled him up from the ground. He nearly fell, threatening to topple them over as he struggled to find his balance, unable to put much weight on his left leg. Fiona could tell he was frustrated as he leaned against her, adjusting his arm across her shoulder as she carefully began to move them away from the bloody scene. She led them further south along the river, knowing they’d need fresh water immediately. What she also remembered was an abandoned fishery hut, just a few clicks southwest—if they could make it.

When the cabin was in sight, Brynjolf had almost completely slumped in her arms. By then, Fiona’s earlier thoughts had also caught up to her—why hadn’t she just _shouted_ at the vampire threat and been done with it? What if either of them had been injured far worse? Or _died_? Dread bubbled in her gut—they weren’t out of the woods yet. She would never be able to forgive herself if Brynjolf didn’t recover, especially if it could’ve all been prevented.

Inside the fishery hut, Fiona could tell it had remained untouched since the last time she discovered it a few months prior. There was a small bed in the corner, a kitchen and not much else except fishing equipment. Brynjolf roused as she steadied their bodies against the closed door, pausing if only to catch her breathing after the long walk. She moved them again, this time towards the bed where she hoped to get a better inventory of his injuries and take the time to properly dress them.

Brynjolf hummed as she placed him on the edge. “Oh look, there’s only one bed.”

In her cumulated frustration of everything that had happened and her current emotions, she huffed at him. “Oh, for once just shut up with the jokes!”

A pang of guilt flashed through her when he widened his eyes, clearly not expecting her to react in such a way. He fell silent, resolving to watch her every movement as she eased him further up the bed, propping him against the headboard and the few pillows for comfort. She could tell his eyes stayed on her as she moved away again, disappearing outside for a moment with two buckets to fetch some fresh water before reappearing to study the room. Fiona wedged a spare chair beneath the door’s handle for added security and shuttered the windows in case there was a storm. She whispered a silent prayer to whatever Gods were listening that they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Finally, she returned to the bedside with the water buckets and her pack, practically dumping the contents across the nightstand. The first thing she grabbed was a small glass bottle, uncorking it and pushing it into Brynjolf’s hands. He drank it without question, obviously trusting her alchemist’s skill but sputtered the moment the liquid touched his lips.

“What in—” he grimaced when she silently encouraged him to continue drinking the contents as she found another one for herself. “Argh, this tastes foul.”

Fiona bit back the harsh taste as she swallowed down the thick syrup. “It’s a mixture of charred skeever hide and mudcrab chitin,” she explained. “Should counter any effects those vampires may have tried to spread to us.”

“Of course,” Brynjolf groaned, leaning his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes. “The last thing I need is to become a bloodthirsty vampire.” One of his eyes peeked open to watch as she carefully laid out what first-aid supplies they hand—strips of linen, bandages and wraps, some salves and a few more potions—she would need to make them last.

“Vex and Tonilia read these filthy boudoir novels where vampires are charming sparkling heroes who bed woman after woman,” he explained with a hazy smile, it increasing when Fiona’s hands went to undo the buckles of his armor to remove his coat, if only to get a better look at his injuries. “Perhaps it would benefit me.”

Fiona stopped, exhaling in a disgruntled way as she looked at him flatly. He sighed. “Right, _no jokes_.”

A somewhat awkward silence fell over them as she helped him remove his armored coat and then his blood-soaked undershirt. Only then did she realize that the wound was far worse than she initially observed in the field. The vampire had stabbed him low between the ribs on his right side, and his labored breathing was enough to know that his lung had been impacted. Of course, Brynjolf had been deflecting as he always did with humor, downplaying the seriousness of the situation.

She gave him another bottle, this time he did not overreact as he drank it—she made sure healing potions didn’t taste as bitter—and ignored the way she could feel her cheeks burning as she worked to remove his pants, whispering more prayers to more Gods that he had the decency to wear underwear (_yes,_ thank Mara). She wasn’t a prude, but this was neither the time or place for her to confront the unresolved feelings that were suddenly brewing and spiraling in her mind and heart. She flicked her eyes up, expecting to find a smirk on his lips but for once found him simply studying her every move as she discarded his soiled clothing to the floor.

She worked quickly and effectively, dipping the sheets of linen into the water to clean at the wounds before focusing on dressing the gash at his thigh, correct in her earlier assumption that it wasn’t as serious—it would heal within weeks, and if he saw a _actual_ healer, there wouldn’t be much scaring. The wound to his chest, however, was a different story. Fiona tried desperately to hide her emotions but found herself raked with guilt and frustration. He had pushed her out of harm’s way like she was incapable of defending herself in a fight, if only to take the brunt of the damage and for what? A hole in the chest?

“You stupid, foolish man,” she whispered, not realizing she had said it until he softly laughed.

“You can stop scolding me, Fiona,” Brynjolf said, grunting as her fingers made contact with the wound to continue wiping the caked blood away.

She frowned, knowing he was right. She was tense and it wasn’t making the situation any better. She focused, trying not to look at the other slivers of scars that littered his torso and shoulders amongst the darkened amber chest hair. An irrational thought that perhaps she should run her fingers through it had her closing her eyes tightly, only snapping them open when Brynjolf made a small sound of discomfort. _Focus_, she reminded herself. The majority of the bleeding had stopped, but without it closed, it risked infection. She needed to change tactics.

If there was one thing Fiona was great at, it was thievery. Alchemy was a close second. She was handy with a bow and could sneak up on a man to cut their purse without them ever knowing. What she _wasn’t _good at in the slightest was any form of magic. While she had attempted to study the spell-books gifted to her by the various Skyrim citizens she had performed favors for, it had been of little use. Even Farengar had struggled to teach her _one _simple restoration spell so she wouldn’t kill herself trying to save Whiterun from that first dragon attack.

Still, it was somewhat of a last resort now, the two of them sitting in that fishery hut in the middle of nowhere with limited supplies. It was the hardest thing trying to recall the warmth to her hands in that moment so she could try to better heal Brynjolf. Finally, the smallest glow of yellow came to her palm and she sighed, pressing her hand to the wound as she coaxed enough healing magic necessary to knit the flesh back together.

Brynjolf relaxed against her touch, looking up at her in bewilderment. “You can use magic, lass?”

“I can’t,” Fiona said, her brows furrowed in concentration. “That’s _all_ you’ll get from me,” she explained in a huff, the expenditure of mana exhausting her more than she expected. Even with the magic, she needed to dress the wound to ensure it wasn’t exposed to the elements and practically used almost all they had wrapping bandages around his torso. “There’s a Stormcloak camp nearby, I believe, if I check my maps. We’ll go there in the morning for proper healing, after you’ve rested.” They were bound to have actual healers, Nords who were better suited to magic than her. Brynjolf nodded and before soon, his eyes began to droop as exhaustion caught up with him.

Fiona adjusted him against the pillows, tucking his cloak across his body to keep him warm before she turned away from him to sit on the edge of the bed. For what felt like the first time that evening she exhaled, her lips shaking as she let the reality of what occurred crash down upon her. Simultaneously, the harsh reminder that she too had been injured radiated from the tips of her right fingers straight up to the middle of her back. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill but she kept them at bay. She clenched her teeth as she carefully peeled her coat from her body, discarding it to the floor with the rest of their bloodied garments. She dipped her hands into the second clean bucket of water, grumbling under her breath at how she couldn’t wait until she was in a place where she could take a proper bath and clean herself of all the dirt, grime and blood. She wrenched the lose water from one of the remaining cloth strips, preparing to shrug her undershirt lose when she felt the bed shift.

“You aren’t about to do that yourself, now are you lass?” Brynjolf’s breathless question had her glancing over her shoulder to see him peering at her though half-lidded eyes, lips skewed up in a lazy attempt at one of his signature smirks.

Fiona reached out to stop Brynjolf as he tried to lift himself from the headboard closer to where she sat, resolving to scoot closer to him instead. She sighed at him, offering a sympathetic smile. “And you would help me in your state?”

“At least let me try.”

She realized she wasn’t going to get far with protesting and reluctantly handed over the washcloth before turning away from him again, this time shrugging her undershirt off her shoulders just enough so he could attend to the wound on her back. Fiona closed her eyes as his fingers swept over the gash, pleasantly surprised by his gentle touch as he cleaned the injury. He dressed the wound slowly, wrapping it around her shoulder and arm until it was secure. His hand lingered along her back, but his touch wasn’t inappropriate, it was _comforting_, fingers rubbing small circles along her spine before finally pulling away. Fiona almost asked him to continue before remembering herself and where they were.

She slowly shifted, turning to face him once again as she handed off the last of the bandages, this time motioning towards her right wrist. “One of them dislocated it,” she explained in a soft voice.

Brynjolf nodded, coaxing her to scoot closer towards him before he pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and just as carefully as before he began wrapping her wrist.

“Tighter, or it won’t set—”

“Fiona,” he softly chuckled, interrupting her. She flicked her gaze up to find his eyes already locked on her face. “I know what I’m doing, lass. Now let me take care of you.”

She went quiet, a strange kind of warmth spreading across her body, no doubt a flush was appearing across her cheeks. Fiona focused on his face, on his deep green eyes—what a shame that he would have to sport a black eye for some time—he was staring at her with some sort of _dreamy_ focused expression that was so different than any look he had ever flashed her way that it had her heart skipping a beat. Within seconds, some sense of rationality came back to her and she decided that Brynjolf had to be suffering from some kind of blood-loss, his actions likely the cause of a delusionary nursemaid situation—he’d be back to his usual lecherous self in no time. Her mind wavered…is that what she truly wanted? 

When he was finished bandaging her wrist she flexed her fingers, testing his work. Brynjolf wasn’t done touching her, however, and reached out to tuck the lose strands of her hair back into place behind her ears. His fingers lingered along her cheek and neck, flashing that sly smile of his, but it was different with the way his eyes shined.

Fiona found herself lost in the quiet serenity of the moment and she reached up with her bandaged hand to cup his face, brushing a thumb over his bruised, split lip. “I hope this doesn’t scar.”

“Oh?”

“It’s your most valuable asset,” she whispered with a cheeky smile. He grinned at her words, twisting his chin ever-so-slightly to press a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. “It would be a shame.”

This was certainly far softer, _closer_ than any of their previous flirtations—it felt almost _real._

Brynjolf hummed against her hand, eyes glimmering with the faintest traces of deviousness that she treasured. “Tell me, don’t they say that kissing an injury makes it better?”

“That’s an old wives’ tale, I’m afraid,” Fiona snickered, amusement increasing as he flashed an overly dramatic pout. “But I’ll kiss you anyways if it will make you feel better.”

Brynjolf’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh, it will make me feel—”

She rolled her eyes, leaning in to cut him off before he could say something foolish to ruin the mood or joke. She kissed him softly, mindful of his injuries but also for the sake of not wanting to get swept into anything _serious_. Not that her mind was already abuzz with dangerous emotions that she would have to deal with sooner or later. Brynjolf didn’t make any moves to deepen the kiss—_for once—_his fingers twitched along her neck and he sighed when she reluctantly pulled away. He was quick to tuck her into a lose hug, careful of both their injuries as he adjusted her close to his chest as he leaned further against the headboard.

In the far distance, she heard a dragon’s roar, but Brynjolf didn’t react, seemingly only focused on their holding her in an embrace. For a split moment she thought about telling him about her true identity, but pushed the thought away, not wanting to ruin the moment of comfort with him. Damn her if it made her selfish. Telling the truth could wait, for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie (and prompt me for more bryn x fiona! :) )  
kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
